


Snow Kisses

by caesia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:50:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1213330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesia/pseuds/caesia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sky sends icy kisses falling against her cheeks, but Jon’s kiss still burns on her lips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Kisses

A muffled clank from beyond her chamber door startles Sansa from sleep. At first, she thinks it too early to rise, for her window allows only a little light to illuminate the room, but at a second glance she realizes that the sun is merely blocked by clouds, not the darkness of night. A floorboard creaks, and her door eases open to reveal the dark head of her husband.

“My lady,” Jon starts, but he hesitates when he sees she’s still abed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s time I was awake. Wait a moment, and I’ll join you in my solar.”

Sansa can see the relief on his face as he turns away and closes the door. Most husbands would not be so discomfited in their wives’ chambers after more than six moons of marriage, but her Jon is a rare man. He still requires an extra mug or two of ale at dinner before he comes to her, she’s noticed, and he is not the type to indulge himself frequently.

_Certainly not frequently enough to give me a child_. She puts that thought aside, as she’s accustomed, and pulls on a dark wool dress and stockings. They lack the delicate embroidery in which she took such pride as a child, but it won’t matter what she wears under her boots as she goes to bid her husband farewell.

In her solar, Jon is stirring a fire from the coals. He is full of these small kindnesses, and large ones, too. Like marrying her so that she might always have a place in Winterfell after his aunt made him lord. He’s worked hard to rebuild the castle, consulting her on plans and specifications throughout. She knows it is a much better marriage than many she might have been subjected to.

_If only…_

Best she bury that thought too. “Are the preparations for you and your men almost finished?”

He stands. “Aye. They’re breaking their fast in the great hall, and then we’ll be off. I came to bid you goodbye.”

Sansa straightens her spine. “I should come see you off in front of the gates, my lord.” _It’s what my lady mother used to do_. She leaves the painful memory unspoken.

Jon misinterprets her reaction. “My lady, that’s not necessary. We’re not going to war. It’s more like…a ranging.”

She busies herself with unfolding her fur-lined cloak to hide her scowl. Reminders of his former position in the Night’s Watch come too often for her liking. She wonders sometimes if his broken vows still trouble him, though Daenerys disbanded the Watch after the fall of the Wall. “Still, you may see battle. Outlaws are desperate men, and dangerous.”

“And poorly armed, and poorly fed. I would not go myself except that Lord Hornwood is so young.”

Sansa has to bite back her initial reply. _He is only two years younger than you._ But the North is filled with young men learning to run their keeps, and none of the others have had the experience of commanding the Night’s Watch. “Let us greet the men at breakfast so you can be on your way, my lord. The sooner you leave, the sooner you might return.”

Something gentles in Jon’s expression, so that his ice-grey eyes grow less cold. But he nods and takes her arm without another word.

At breakfast, the men are jovial. Sansa checks each man’s bowl on their way to the lord’s table near the fire, and catches Jon doing much the same as he notes each man’s armor. The clink of mail and the grunt of weapon-laden belts makes the hall sound like a war camp. Sansa sweetens her bowl with honey, an extravagance sent from Highgarden, while Jon slices open a sausage to stir into his oats. The weather has turned, according to the Citadel, and spring is finally upon them, but it will be months before the North can produce a surplus of crops, since snow still lies upon the ground.

As they eat, various men approach to speak with them. Each one greets Sansa with respect, assuring her of her continued safety and the expedition’s guaranteed success, before exchanging jokes and boasts with Jon. It’s strange to her that the prospect of fighting ignites their excitement even after a winter of war, yet an appetite for justice still remains among the Northmen.

Or vengeance. Since the outlaws they plan to track are likely a band of Bolton men, hiding in the woods between raids on villages and farms, their hunger is twice as sharp. In her dreams, Sansa sometimes conjures the sight of Winterfell in ruins that greeted her and her new husband when they arrived. Each day of snowmelt reveals more ashes along the ground, so that the puddles in the training yard run black with soot. Truly, the North remembers.

As empty dishes are cleared away, the men begin to leave the hall in small groups to saddle their horses and wait for their lord by the gate. Jon stays by her side until she finishes as well, and escorts her through the keep to where his steward has readied his own mount. His men arrange themselves to face the gate while he checks over the tack.

Sansa folds her hands in front of her waist to keep from wringing them as she surveys the yard. The heavy sky has begun to shed its burden, sending down white flakes light as feathers. It reminds her of a girl named Alayne building a snow castle in another world. It reminds her of her brother Robb leaving this same yard with snowflakes melting in his hair.

“My lord, are you sure there are enough men?” she asks Jon softly as he turns to tell her goodbye.

“I am leaving nearly all of the household guard, more than five score men. And your Lady Brienne has instructions for summoning more, should the need arise. You will be safe here, my lady, I promise.”

Again, he misunderstands her. “I meant for you. I am not the one who will be fighting. Do you have enough men to defend you? What if you are cut off from Winterfell, or slowed by snow?”

His stern mouth twitches under his beard, though whether in amusement or surprise, she cannot tell. “I will be well guarded, Sansa, and we will meet with more men from Hornwood before giving pursuit. Do not worry yourself for my safety, I beg you.”

_What else is a wife to do while her husband fights far from home?_ But she won’t let his last memory of her be a childish complaint. It is his duty to protect his people, just as it is her duty to manage Winterfell alone while he is away. “I will wish you success, then, and a speedy return home.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he says. Then he takes her face between his palms and kisses her.

The last time they kissed in front of a crowd such as this, they were being wed. That had been a fleeting touch of lips, a tentative gesture between two people barely able to think themselves cousins instead of siblings. Now, Jon cradles her against his mouth as if she is something precious, and the press of his lips is firm and warm. She mimics his motions, moving and parting her lips the way she’s felt him kiss her neck and shoulders at night in her chambers. He slides his tongue across her lips and into her mouth, and for an instant it touches her own. The unfamiliar contact makes her belly soar and clench at the same time, but Jon pulls back, pressing their foreheads together instead. His pupils are wide and dark, and the heat from his gaze reminds her of his true parentage.

“Goodbye, husband,” she manages to whisper.

“Goodbye, my wife,” he replies just as softly. His hands brush lightly across her skin, and then he mounts, turning his attention to the yard full of men who are grinning at the rare affection their liege has shown. “Let us march!” he cries, and the gates swing open.

Sansa watches them depart until the last man is no longer visible. The sky sends icy kisses falling against her cheeks, but Jon’s kiss still burns on her lips.

 

 

Her moon blood comes twice before Jon returns. She regrets that her womb goes unseeded, but even more she misses the presence of her husband. She’d worried that their marriage lacked true affection, but only after Jon leaves does she realize all the ways they’ve come to take care of one another. Her maid neither thinks to prop Sansa’s slippers next to the fire while she sews with her feet tucked up under her skirts, nor offers to fetch them when she sets down her work to retire. Her sewing basket itself grows light without Jon’s tunics and breeches to mend, and she finds herself embroidering ever more detailed embellishments onto her stockings to make up for the lack. After a whole week without a single pastry arriving with her breakfast in her solar, she inquires with the cook, only to learn that Jon has made a habit of ordering sweets to be made especially for her.

His advice is sorely wanted as well. She even makes a detour to the yard one day to ask him for counsel on a plan to expand the glass gardens, and has to make up an excuse about discussing the training schedule with the master-at-arms.

Her visits to the Godwood become more frequent. _Return him to me safe_ , she prays. _Bring him back unhurt, so that we may try again to learn one another._

Finally, a scout arrives heralding the men’s return by nightfall. Sansa orders enough food for a feast, and frets in the cellars for the better part of an hour deciding which vintage of wine to bring up before recalling that the men would prefer ale. By the time she hears the castle guards blowing their horns in welcome, she’s changed gowns thrice and brushed her hair into a shining curtain.

Jon rides at the front of the column beside the grey and white standard of House Stark, wearing no protection but a leather tunic and breastplate. He raises a hand to salute the guards as they open the gates, and Sansa can see the broad grin stretched across his face. As soon as he dismounts, she cannot keep from hurrying  to meet him with a matching smile.

“Welcome home, Jon. Are you well? Unhurt?” The words tumble out of her eager lips.

He executes an exaggerated bow, not dissimilar from the ones she’d seen in King’s Landing a lifetime ago. “Hale and hearty, my lady. Though rather dirtier than when I left.” She can feel it on his skin as he takes her hands in his to kiss her knuckles, but she doesn’t mind. If she didn’t know better, she’d say the heat hadn’t left his eyes the whole time he’d been away fighting.

“I’m glad to hear it. And your men, are they well?”

If possible, his smile grows wider. “Six were injured, but none badly. We routed the outlaws soundly.”

“Then I bid you come eat, and celebrate your victory. Though you might bathe first, if you prefer.”

Jon bows again. “As my lady commands.”

The feast passes too slowly for Sansa’s liking. It seems every man wishes to present a toast, and each time her husband must stand and drink with him. To Winterfell, to House Stark, to the prosperity of the North, to a long summer. _To bed_ , Sansa cries in her head with every round of cheers. When Jon finally pushes his plate away, she takes her chance.

“I’ve grown unaccustomed to feasting late into the night in your absence, my lord. Will you walk me to my chambers?”

As they rise to leave, another cry goes up. “To Lady Stark! The fairest in all the North!”

“Nay,” Jon corrects, “in all the seven kingdoms!”

Shouts and laughter follow them up the stairs, Sansa clutching tightly to Jon’s arm. At her door, he pauses, but she tugs him inside with her. “Sansa. My lady…”

“I’ve missed you, Jon,” she nearly pleads as she pulls him across the room to her chambers. He follows, unresisting, until she busies her hands loosening his belt and tunic. “I want to see you,” she says, to silence his protests. “I need to see that you’re truly unharmed.”

She’s never seen her husband stripped naked before, even during their previous couplings, but he obeys her wishes and helps her to remove the heavy leather. When he lifts off his shirt, though, he reveals skin livid with bruises. A bandage wrapped high on his left arm seeps blood, and a long cut crusted with scabs crosses his ribs. Reaching up, Sansa traces a tender bruise just above his heart. “Unhurt. You told me you were unhurt.”

“The bruises will fade, and even a shallow scratch may bleed for more than a day. Truly, I am well.” His voice breaks as Sansa leans forward to kiss the skin under her fingers. Then she moves her mouth lower, over his nipple, to kiss another purple mark. She lets her fingers skate down his side to examine the cut and he shudders. “Gods, Sansa.”

“Does that give you pain?” she asks in an innocent voice as she presses harder against the edges of the wound. “You should have let me bind it as soon as you arrived home.”

“Are you to be my maester as well as my wife?”

“If that is what my husband requires.” She works her mouth over another cut, tasting iron as well as the warm salt of his skin. Jon reaches to pull her closer, but she slips under his arm and around to see his back. His left shoulder blade is black with pooled blood all the way to his spine. “Jon!”

He pivots and catches her in his arms. “That’s no war wound, my lady, and not so bad as it looks. I sparred a bit with Ser Gendry after we captured the outlaws, and got in the way of his right arm.”

The knight had been a blacksmith before Jon had granted him part of the former Bolton lands, Sansa remembers. “You should be more careful, my lord. I could not have borne it if you had not returned to me.”

She holds her breath for a long moment, until he strokes her cheek in wonder. “Sweet girl. You did miss me.” His voice is shadowed with disbelief.

“I dreamt of you, too,” she murmurs. “That you kissed me again the way you did before you left.”

Jon follows her cue and lowers his mouth to hers. She parts her lips immediately, this time, so that she might taste the secret corners of him. Jon groans and blindly reaches for her jaw, to bring her closer. Sansa can’t help but run her hands over the broad planes of his chest and shoulders. A scattering of dark hair grows where his skin isn’t interrupted by ridged scars, and she enjoys feeling the different textures almost as much as she enjoys the noises Jon makes into her mouth when she presses too hard on a bruise.

Eventually, Jon claws at her laces, until by some miracle they loosen and her dress falls to the floor. She breaks their kiss to lie down on her furs, helped by Jon’s hand on her waist. His eyes burn with a darker fire now, and she guesses that his lips feel as tender and swollen as her own. He kneels on the bed with one leg between hers, and his hands rub urgent circles on his thighs. “Might I…might I see you as well?”

She’s never lifted her shift higher than her waist for him before, nor lain with him on top of their furs instead of under them. Sansa doubts that anything beneath her shift could compare with the sight of his sculpted arms and shoulders, but she cannot deny him anything, not tonight, so she nods. He slowly begins to work the thin material up her legs, but he stops halfway up her thighs to trace the blue roses that adorn her stockings.

“You’ve been busy, I see,” he says, his voice rough. He pushes her shift a little higher and bends to brush his lips along the edge of her stocking, making her whimper. Then she lifts her hips to help him ease her shift out from under her and pulls the rest of it over her head herself.

Sansa has been called beautiful many times-by her father, by men at court, even on occasion by her husband. But never has she felt as much like a lady in a song as she does when Jon settles back on his knees to look at her, a hand scrubbing at his beard. His other hand strokes the inside of her knee. “Gods, Sansa, you’re perfect. My sweet, perfect wife.”

Other nights, he’s propped himself beside her and buried his head against her neck while working careful fingers between her folds to ready her. She would lie still and calm as he moved inside her, gasping quietly when he hit a sensitive spot or when he let a hand creep up her front to palm her flesh. Now she opens her legs further and welcomes the press of his thighs and the rigid heat beneath his breeches as he leans forward. He takes the tip of one of her teats into his mouth and swirls the nipple against his tongue, cupping the full curve with his hand to suck at it more deeply. Her back arches in surprised pleasure.

“My sweet girl, so sweet, Sansa,” he praises the skin between her teats as she chants his name. After he lavishes equal attention on both sides, she pulls him higher so that she can kiss his mouth and tangle her tongue with his once more. He slips a hand down to her core to test her wetness, and she feel a drop of her own liquid hit her belly as he pulls his hand away, groaning. She closes her eyes while he pants against her collarbone, and when she opens them she thinks for a second she’s caught him pulling his fingers from his mouth. The thought makes her hot and shivery all at once.

“Come inside me, Jon,” she tells him in a high, breathy voice. He scrambles to push his breeches down his legs and enter her. They fit together as if they are one, and it _is_ sweet, so much so that Sansa repeats Jon’s words back at him. She caresses the straining tendons in his shoulders as he holds himself above her, until his bruised side gives out and he half-collapses against her. He moves his hand between them, then, and finds a spot just above their joined bodies that makes her hips jump, seeking more contact.

Even as she rocks against his hand, she bends her legs to clutch at his sides. The movement is soon his undoing, and he spills inside her with a long, harsh breath. Her thighs and belly are sticky with sweat tinged red from his wounds, and the stained bandage around his arm has grown darker. _So much for acting as his maester_ , she thinks.

When he returns to himself, Jon rolls to his side and strokes her hair. “Might I stay with you tonight, my lady?” The title is formal, but his expression is dreamy and relaxed.

“You may, my lord.” He adjusts the furs to cover their legs and gathers her close against him. Reassured, Sansa continues, “And other nights, if you wish. We might…we might conceive a babe.”

“We might,” he agrees, and his eyes grow even more tender. “Would you like that? To share a babe, with me?”

“I would.” For the first time, she admits her wish aloud.

“Aye, then. A sweet babe for my sweet girl.” He brushes a gentle kiss across her forehead and closes his eyes.

All night, Sansa dreams of falling snow kissing a tiny head of dark curls.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come brainstorm fic ideas and fangirl over Jon/Sansa with me on [tumblr](http://www.caesiamusa.tumblr.com).   
> Feedback is almost as lovely as kisses in the snow :)


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